


The Ways of Fate

by Zutara90



Series: The Witcher of Rivia [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zutara90/pseuds/Zutara90
Summary: An ancient forest hides a sinister secret and Geralt finds himself wrapped up in its plot. Can he unravel its mystery before it's too late? Or will he be overwhelmed by threats beyond his reckoning?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author’s Note:** So I’ve been wanting to write another Witcher fanfic for a while now, but I just didn’t have any ideas that were worth writing. And then this one just kind of came out of nowhere and it grew and grew until it became the story it is now. As far as how I’m going to post it, per some advice I’ve received, I’m going to release it one chapter at a time, once a week. Just a little experiment to see how things go in the way of viewership. If it ends up working, then I may keep doing it in the future, if not, then I can always go back to posting whole stories at one time. The story is completely finished though, so that deadline will not change. Regardless, I hope you enjoy! And please stay tuned! 

* * *

 

**Chapter One**

Geralt and Vesemir had been traveling together on the Path for almost a year. With the two of them, they could take on much more dangerous prey and earn larger sums of gold. Or, at the very least, they could take on two contracts at once. Plus, sometimes it was nice just to have someone to talk to along the way. A friendly face in an inhospitable world.

But winter was approaching and they had started the long journey back to Kaer Morhen, where they would weather out the cold. A journey that now brought them to a vast forest on the eastern edge of Velen, somewhat south of Kaer Morhen. It stretched as far as they could see. A fork in the road left them with two options. The left led north, into the trees. The right turned east and followed along beside them.

Vesemir turned his mount to take the path on the right.

“Where are you going?” Geralt called to him.

“Around,” was the pert reply.

“That’s going to take us days out of our way. This path will take us straight through the forest.”

“I’d rather not go through this particular forest if I don’t have to.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten superstitious in your old age.”

Vesemir shot Geralt a withering look. “I call it caution. And you would do well to exercise it. You know as well as I the stories told of this place.”

“Yes, yes. Everyone has heard the tale of Bloodlet Forest,” Geralt answered dismissively.

Continuing on as if he hadn’t heard Geralt, Vesemir waxed on about the legend of Bloodlet Forest, his voice both distant and dramatic as though telling a campfire story meant to scare children. “A war was waged ages ago by nations no longer in existence.” Geralt resignedly rolled his eyes. “Its final battle was fought on this very land, before this forest ever came to be. Thousands died, maybe even tens of thousands, the very ground stained red from the blood of the fallen. Where no life should have been able to survive, this forest sprung, from the ashes of the smoldering corpses. It was borne from anger and sorrow and death. Nothing good will come from going in there.”

Geralt sighed impatiently. “Are you finished? Because I’m heading this way.” He gestured into the forest. “I don’t believe in that nonsense and I am baffled as to why you do. A witcher knows that every ghost story boils down to some wraith or ghoul or hym. And they can all be destroyed.”

“I’ve seen more things than you would believe, my friend. And I’ve learned that not everything can be explained.”

“Either way, I’m not wasting my time going around when we can be through by tomorrow just because of some myth.” Geralt nudged Roach a few feet along the path into the forest before stopping and turning back. “Are you coming or not?”

Grumbling a quiet protest, Vesemir followed.

Due to the time of year, the leaves stayed true to the forest’s name. They bathed the witchers in an auburn light, the sun’s rays bleeding through the crimson, orange, and golden foliage. The forest was quiet and still, like it was holding its breath. There was a closeness in the air. An antiquity. An oppressiveness. Even Geralt found himself wanting to look over his shoulder, not able to shake the feeling that they were being watched, for which he berated himself. He was getting as bad as Vesemir. This forest was no different than any other. And there was nothing held within it that they couldn’t handle.

It was nearly midday when Geralt smelled smoke coming from up ahead. However, the trees were too tightly packed for him to see far enough to find its source. “Do you smell that?” he asked, lifting his head slightly to catch a better scent.

“Yeah. What do you think? Forest fire?”

“No, too small. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a village. Smells like stoves, hearths.”

“Out here?”

“Only one way to find out.” Kicking Roach into a lope, Geralt shot ahead of Vesemir and around the large bend in the path only to stop when the forest widened to reveal a small town amidst the trees.

Vesemir reined in next to him. “Well, I’ll be. I never knew there were people living in here.”

Firing a sarcastic grin at Vesemir, Geralt said, “Guess they haven’t heard the stories,” and continued on his way.

When Vesemir caught up with his younger cohort, Geralt expressed his enthusiasm at finding the town, both of them making their way down the dirt road side by side. “Looks like we won’t have to sleep out in the open tonight. I bet there is someone willing to rent out a room and serve a hot meal.”

The town was large, considering its location, comprised of more than twenty or so houses, from Geralt’s cursory count, all topped with thatched roofs coated in a layer of dead leaves. Smoke rose from a handful of chimneys, fires warming midday meals and weary villagers. In the streets ambled women hanging freshly laundered clothes, children playing guards and bandits, and those lucky enough to have a spare moment to themselves. Heads turned to follow the outsiders. The townspeople seemed curious of their new guests, of which, they had few.

They hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet into the town when, from down the main road, came a man frantically running toward them. Geralt might have been taken aback were the man at all imposing. He was of average build, if a little on the lean side, with fair hair and red-rimmed eyes. He strode directly up to the witchers, either unafraid of them or desperate enough to overcome his fear. Geralt assumed it was the latter. He had seen many people in such a state.

“Please, sirs. Please, help me!” The man hysterically rambled on. “No one else will help me. They think I’m just being paranoid and then I saw you two come into the village and you looked like you could handle yourselves, what with your swords and all…”

The witchers spared a glance at each other before Geralt replied. “Slow down. Just take a deep breath and tell us what the problem is.”

The man steadied himself, visibly taking a breath and exhaling. “I fear some terrible fate has befallen my brother.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

“Let’s just start with names, shall we? I’m Vesemir.” Vesemir placed his hand on his chest and then swept it towards Geralt. “And this is Geralt,” who then nodded his head in greeting.

Flustered, but controlling himself, the man answered. “Name’s Fimel. Please, I beg you, you have to help me.”

After hearing the man’s request, the witchers agreed to hear out his story once Vesemir had stipulated that they do so with a full belly. They now found themselves sitting at his dinner table with a large plate of aged cheese and day-old bread, two small flagons of mead already half empty.

Seemingly satisfied that the witchers had quelled their appetite, the man launched into his story. “It’s my brother, Nithal. He’s been gone nigh a week now. He hunts, you see. Only game has gotten scarce, what with the war and all. He’s had to go further and further afield to find anything worth eating. Told me he was crossing the river to look for deer. Should’ve been back days ago. But everyone says I don’t know what I’m talking about. That he is just taking longer than expected.”

“They do have a point,” Vesemir chimed in. “Hunting takes patience. Sometimes things take longer than you plan.”

“Aye, but this is different, I can feel it. Something isn’t right.”

“Perhaps he just got lost. If he’s had to go further out than he normally does, then he wouldn’t know that part of the woods,” offered Geralt, taking another swig of mead.

“No, there’s no chance of that. My brother is not the kind to get lost. Even if he were, he’s got Ripper with him.” At the looks of confusion on the witcher’s faces, he added, “His dog. Ripper always knows the way home.”

Geralt set down his empty mug on the table. “Alright, fine. So he’s not lost and he’s not hunting. Then you realize what the logical conclusion is, don’t you? I don’t mean to be grim, but chances are that your brother is—”

“No, Nithal isn’t dead. I can’t explain how I know it, but I do.” Vesemir and Geralt exchanged doubtful glances. Fimel continued on despite their skepticism. “Look, all I want is for someone to go looking for him. Pick up his trail, find him, bring him back.” Geralt opened his mouth to say something, but Fimel stopped him with a placating gesture. “And if what you believe truly has come to pass, well then… then at least I’ll know what happened. I could take solace in that if nothing else.”

An audible sigh escaped Geralt’s lips. He didn’t want to delay their journey and he hated getting involved in matters that didn’t concern him. But contrary to what he led everyone to believe, he did have a conscience. He couldn’t just abandon such a desperate man when there was clearly no one else willing to help. Plus, they had already accepted Fimel’s hospitality. It would be a little uncouth to turn him down now. What could it hurt to poke around the woods a bit? They would probably find the brother’s body across the river, torn to pieces by wolves and be back by the next morning. Fimel erased any remaining doubt in Geralt’s decision with his next statement.

“I’ll pay you anything you want. Anything, it’s yours. Please, I beg you, find my brother.”

Vesemir raised his eyebrows in a politely amused way, prompting Geralt to voice his decision.

“Fine,” Geralt grumbled. “We’ll look for your brother. But I make no promises as to what condition we might find him in.”

The man looked as though he were about to cry, he was so overjoyed at the news. “Oh, thank you, sirs, thank you!”

Having both finished their food, the two witchers stood as one, Vesemir giving a slight groan as he did so and placing his hands on his hips. “Well, no point in dawdling. Point us in the right direction and we will be on our way.”

* * *

It took the rest of the day to find the place Fimel had described—a small clearing next to the river, where a low waterfall pooled and slowed the river enough to cross, due east of the village. The autumn canopy was ablaze with the orange light cast by the setting sun. A scene matched only by its shimmering reflection in the churning water. It was a stunning view. Both men halted in the clearing, subconsciously agreeing to drink in its beauty, just for a moment.

That moment ended when Geralt spotted footprints heading into the water. There were two sets, one a man’s, and one a dog’s. He followed their direction with his gaze and found a matching set exiting the river on the far side, still fresh due to the bank’s perpetual mud. Conspicuously absent were any prints leading back toward the village.

“Guess we’re in the right place,” remarked Geralt before dismounting Roach. They could more effectively follow Nithal’s tracks from the ground. Vesemir quickly followed suit and they both tied their reins to the saddle horns and let their horses loose. They were trained not to wander too far and to come at a whistle from their masters.

“Ready?” Vesemir asked, tilting his head toward the river.

“Let’s just get this over with.”

Not wasting any more time, Geralt waded into the river. The water was only waist-deep, but bone-chillingly cold. Geralt gritted his teeth, partly against the pain seeping up his legs and partly in an effort to keep them from chattering. He hated the cold. The far bank was maybe twenty yards away and Geralt hoisted himself up it as quickly as possible, careful as he did so not to disturb the tracks left by Nithal and Ripper, with Vesemir following closely behind.

Squatting down next to the footprints, Geralt followed them with his eyes as far as he could see into the woods. The trail was clear.

Geralt stood. “Looks like these will be easy enough to follow. Should find Nithal in no time.”

“Looks can be deceiving, Geralt. Let’s not count our chickens before they’re hatched.”

Sure enough, they hadn’t followed the trail for more than two hundred yards into the trees than it all but disappeared. What was once forest loam, clear of debris near the river, soon turned into hard-packed dirt, strewn with several inches of fallen leaves and pine needles. There were no more footprints, but that didn’t mean the trail was gone. It would have been nigh impossible for anyone but a witcher to track.

Geralt grumbled in his throat, annoyed at the turn of events, and not daring to look at Vesemir for the _I told you so_ he knew he would receive. Instead he searched on for further signs of passage, heading in generally the same direction as the tracks had indicated. It took them several minutes of hard searching, but Vesemir was able to spy a small break in a twig ahead of them and a little to the right. It was near shoulder height, so it had to have been something tall. Taller than a deer or other, smaller animal. It had to have been Nithal.

And so they continued on. Slowly. The sun was soon replaced by the light of the opalescent moon. It was nearly full and provided the witchers with plenty of light. With their cat eyes, the forest was nearly as bright as it was in the sunlight, if cast with an eerie glow that bleached it of color.

The trail wound through the forest for several miles, Geralt and Vesemir led on by an inconsistent set of clues—a snapped twig here, a strand of blonde hair there, the tiniest bit of cloth caught up in a bramble. When the silence and the chill of the earliest hours of the morning crept in, Geralt was ready to call it a night. They would just have to start again in the morning. He wasn’t even sure how far behind Nithal they were, the nature of the traces they found leaving no timetable. They could be hours or days behind him for all he knew.

Vesemir chose that moment to let out a wide yawn. He was more following Geralt at that point than the actual trail, though he would occasionally identify another sign. Increased stamina or no, they were both getting tired. And that would make them sloppy. Geralt knew they couldn’t afford to miss anything.

He was about to turn around and say so to Vesemir when he caught sight of something in the distance. He wasn’t quite sure what about it made it stand out, but there was some sort of disturbance in the bed of leaves. They weren’t quite piled in a natural way and Geralt’s eye, accustomed to the natural lay of the land after having stared at it for miles, noticed the difference.

“Hey, I think there’s something over there.” He jogged over to the pile to get a closer look. Vesemir looked up in interest at the sudden break in silence, but made no move to follow the younger witcher.

Upon closer inspection, Geralt still couldn’t figure out what had happened in that spot. It looked for sure like someone had gone through there, two distinct lines cutting a path through the leaves, like a pair of feet skidding down a hill. Only, they were going uphill and then they just… ended.

Waving him over, Geralt called to Vesemir. “Come look at this. I’m not really sure what to make of it.” Obediently, Vesemir started heading up the slight hill. As Vesemir was making his way over, Geralt circled the disturbance, viewing it from a different angle, hoping it would bless him with some insight.

Instead, the ground suddenly gave way beneath Geralt, plunging him down through the bed of leaves and into darkness, his hands flying upward in a vain attempt to grab hold of something. His feet crashed into a steep hill that sent him tumbling a further twenty feet into a cave, dry foliage and branches cascading down around and on top of him. At the bottom, Geralt finally rolled to a stop. The fall had knocked the wind from his lungs and it took him a moment to find his breath and heave in the dank and musty air. Other than a few open cuts and what would surely turn into nasty bruises, Geralt was unharmed.

At the top of the pit, which appeared as little more than a small circle of light, Geralt beheld Vesemir, peering into the hole.

“Are you alright?” Vesemir called.

Still coughing, Geralt turned and answered, “I’m fine.” He looked up at the sheer slope in front of him, weighing his options. It was too steep to walk on and the tree roots didn’t reach down far enough for him to climb out. “Don’t think I’ll be getting out this way though. There’s a cavern down here, it has to let out somewhere.”

“I’ll see if I can’t find the entrance from this side and meet you there.” With that, Vesemir’s head disappeared from the circle of light.

Turning back to the cavern, Geralt could finally take in his surroundings. The cave, having no natural source of light other than the column of moonlight floating down through the shaft, was nearly pitch black. Even Geralt had to widen his pupils to their full extent in order to see. Just beyond the reach of the moonlight was something Geralt hadn’t seen earlier, despite its blatant conspicuousness.

A corpse.

It was a dog, impaled through the heart by a broken branch. Suspicions aroused, Geralt quickly ran through the implications in his mind. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. The dog had to be Ripper. Meaning Nithal had come this way and fallen into the same hole. But that revelation only led to more questions. Ones that had disturbing conclusions. If Nithal had fallen through that hole, then someone had to have covered it back up. Was it a trap? Some sentient creature bent on cornering its prey? Geralt unthinkingly fingered the strap across his shoulder that held both of his blades tight to his back.

What was going on?

Knowing he would get nowhere by standing around, Geralt strode cautiously into the darkness. Focusing on the path ahead of him, Geralt didn’t see the small dip in the cavern floor at his feet. With his next step, his foot slid out from under him and his back slammed onto the rock. Groaning, Geralt rolled over and paused when his hands met with a slimy surface. He hadn’t noticed before, but the whole cave was coated in a thin layer of slime. Thin enough that it didn’t make a sound when trod upon and not enough to cause a glisten in the dim light, thus giving itself away. From what Geralt could tell, it was issuing from the clusters of mushrooms that dotted the cave, ones that he had never seen before. Swearing and shaking the muck from his hands, Geralt delved further into the cave, careful to keep his feet.

Further on, the small tunnel let out into a massive cavern, the ceiling almost fifty feet high and stretching several hundred yards. Stalactites reached down from posts above and stalagmites clawed their way upward in return, a massive set of stone teeth waiting for an intruder to bite into. Dotted along the walls were many circular openings like the one Geralt had entered through. They varied in size. Some of them would have only permitted a rat while others could have fit two fiends side by side.

“Great,” Geralt said to himself, surveying the myriad paths in front of him. There were no distinguishing marks that gave any clue as to where the tunnels led, so any guess was as good as the next. Geralt decided to go with the largest path, which was perpendicular to the tunnel he was currently occupying.

He hadn’t gone too far when a blood-curdling wail rent the still air, raising the hairs on the back of Geralt’s neck. Another screech answered the first and echoed through the chamber.

Wraiths.

Geralt already had his hand near the hilt of his silver sword and drew it instantly when a greenish glow made its way out of the gloom. Three nightwraiths were soon upon him. Just before they reached him, Geralt threw down an Yrden sign and held his sword at the ready.

The ghostly women flew at Geralt in an all-out attack, albeit somewhat slowed by his trap. Soon Geralt was dodging and blocking their attacks from all angles, surrounded. He would duck one swipe only to have to catch a blade with his own immediately after. He didn’t have time to breathe, let alone attack. It didn’t make any sense. Three wraiths were bothersome, but generally not a serious threat. Not to someone as skilled as Geralt. Something was wrong. Geralt felt slow, like there were weights attached to his limbs and he couldn’t quite bring his foes into focus. He shook his head, but the swarming masses in front of him now swam across his field of vision.

One attempted swing at his head came dangerously close. It would have landed, had he not leaned back almost parallel to the ground at the last second, falling backward in doing so. Too dizzy and weak to stand, Geralt was left vulnerable on the ground. The black and green world swirled before his eyes, but Geralt managed to discern an overhead blow coming toward him. There was no dodging this time. In a last ditch effort, Geralt threw up a hand to block the swinging sword. At the moment it touched his flesh, Geralt expected blinding pain and the warmth of blood seeping down his shirt. But he felt nothing. The sword didn’t touch him. He watched it pass through his body like mist and materialize once more on the other side. Geralt swung his sword wildly around him, trying desperately to fend off the monsters, too out of it to figure out what was going on, instinct alone driving his actions. The sword eventually fell from his grasp and he followed it a moment later, eyes rolling into his head as he hit the cold, hard stone. In his dimming vision, the glowing phantoms vanished as if they had never been there, leaving Geralt in utter darkness. Unconsciousness soon took that from him as well.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Geralt awoke into a blinding, white light. He instinctively shielded his eyes with his hands, lids closing tight as he cried out in pain. His pupils were still dilated and he had to act deliberately to shrink them into slits, an action that usually occurred instantaneously, but took him a few seconds to achieve. When he could see once more, Geralt found himself shackled in a cage.

“You alright there?” A man called from near Geralt’s feet.

Geralt slowly rose into a sitting position, his head swimming slightly as he did so. Blinking away the dizziness, Geralt looked first at his hands. They were bound in iron shackles, a matching set encircling his ankles. His swords and medallion were gone.

Not receiving an answer, the man persisted. “Sir, are you alright?”

Looking at the man properly for the first time, Geralt replied, “I’ve been better.” The man was similarly constrained along with the three other men occupying the large cage. The remaining men glanced in Geralt’s direction, but were too busy worrying to say anything. They all looked afraid, hopeless.

“Haven’t we all.” The man brandished his chained hands meaningfully.

Geralt stood, awkwardly on account of his restraints, and glanced outside the bars. They were in some sort of village. It was within the forest, a fact given away by the fall colors poking out over the houses and the soughing of leaves in the wind. People were bustling to and fro beneath the arboreal wardens, living their normal lives despite the five caged human beings in their midst. From what he could tell, they were in the center of the little town, with some sort of enormous, gnarled stump at its very heart, and mere yards away from their position, in a small clearing. There was something about it that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Seen your fill?” That man again.

“Where are we?”

“Hell if I know. Landed here myself a couple days ago.” Geralt swayed as a sudden fit of vertigo hit him. He hastily sat down before his legs gave out. “That’ll wear off after a couple of hours. Figure it must have been those damned mushrooms.”

“Wait, you were… you were in that cave?”

“Aye. Somehow the fall didn’t kill me.” A sadness crept into his face. “My dog, though. He wasn’t so lucky. Thought I was going to be ripped to shreds when the spiders attacked. That’s the thing though. They couldn’t touch me, like they were ghosts or something. Still, I was going crazy trying to fend them off until I finally just passed out. Wound up here. Did you see anything down there?”

“Mmhmm. Wraiths. Three of them. Guess it was all just a hallucination.” Quickly changing subjects, Geralt added, “But it seems fate is laughing at me because now I’ve found you, but we’re both stuck in here.” He gestured around them with his shackled hands.

The man just looked confused. “Found me? What are you talking about?”

“I suppose I should ask your name first, just to be sure.”

“The name’s Nithal.” Upon looking at him, the similarities to his brother were rather striking, both of about the same height and complexion with identical noses. Nithal was a bit more muscularly built with more fine-cut features in his face than Fimel, but Geralt could definitely see the family resemblance.

“Just as I thought. I’m Geralt of Rivia, a witcher. Your brother sent my companion and me to find you. He was convinced something bad had happened to you. I guess he was right after all. Any idea why we’re in this cage? Slavers maybe?”

“I’ve no idea. They’ve done naught but bring us bread and water since I woke up here. I keep hearing the villagers say something about the full moon though.”

“Who is that?” Across the way, a tall man with black hair strode down the main thoroughfare. His skin was extremely pale. Paler perhaps even than Geralt’s. An air of authority swirled around him, manifesting itself in his sure gait and the reverential glances the villagers cast in his direction. A second man flanked him on the right. His flaming red hair stood in stark contrast to the first’s jet black mane, though he stood at about the same height.

“That’s the village leader, as far as I can tell. His lackey’s never far behind either. They strut around this place like they own it, which, I suppose, they actually might.”

“Hmm.”

They lapsed into contemplative silence until a young woman approached, bearing a small basket and a cask of water. She was pretty, with sandy hair and a kind look about her. Geralt could see calluses on her petite hands—evidence of a hard working individual, not some pampered child. The smell of yeast wafted over to Geralt and set his mouth watering. He hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. As soon as the woman kneeled and pushed the two items through a small hole at the bottom of the cage, the men dove into them, Geralt coming up with half a loaf of bread. His eyes met the woman’s and she held his gaze, transfixed by his unusual eyes. After a moment, she seemed to snap back to reality with a blink and a furtive look over her shoulder, then stood and hurried away. She hadn’t gone two steps when Geralt called to her in a whisper.

“Wait!” She stopped, but didn’t turn back. “Where are we? What do they want with us?”

She turned her head to the point where Geralt could see the profile of her face. Her voice was quiet. “I’m not supposed to talk you.”

Nithal joined in on the conversation, his voice soothing and kind. “Please, just tell us why we’re here.”

“I’m sorry.” Before either man could say another word, she left, hastening down the path.

* * *

Geralt had dozed off when, all of a sudden, he was awoken by a commotion running through the town. It was near midnight, the full moon lending its substantial light to the landscape. Instantly awake, he stood to see what all the fuss was about, accidentally rousing Nithal at the same time. He turned to look as well, wiping the weariness from his eyes.

The townspeople were gathering around the large stump, led by the black-haired man. Behind him came a gaggle of men armed with clubs and swords. The redhead was nowhere to be found. For someone who basically acted as the black-haired man’s shadow, Geralt found it odd that he wasn’t at such a gathering. But it was a minor detail compared to what was happening.

Blazing torches lined the makeshift auditorium. There was an excitement permeating the very air. But underneath it ran something else. Was it fear? Whatever it was, Geralt was getting a bad feeling about it.

Two of the armed men peeled off from the procession and headed towards their cage as everyone else formed a large circle around the stump, partially blocking Geralt’s view. By the time the guards reached the cage, the three other prisoners were standing as well. The first man to reach the cage pulled a large, iron key from his pocket, unlocking the door with it and stepping aside to let his companion inside.

“You! Come with us.” The guard pointed at the man closest to the door, who hastily tried to retreat, but was too slow to avoid the outstretching arms coming at him. Geralt shoved himself to the front of the cage, trodding on several feet in the process. He didn’t know what was going on, but it wasn’t going to end happily whatever it was and he wasn’t going to let them take the man without a fight. Nithal pushed his way towards the door as well, backing up Geralt. Geralt knew then that Nithal was a man to be trusted, one that could be counted on if an opportunity to escape ever arose. He found himself instantly liking the man.

“Let him go,” Geralt growled.

“Stay back, filth! And don’t interfere.”

The guard had already gotten the man out of the cage, but now the guard was the one on the inside and just within Geralt’s reach. Taking advantage of his position, Geralt grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him into a bone-crunching headbutt. Temporarily dazed, the man floundered in the doorway. Geralt made to move past him, but more guards had already approached at the sound of the commotion. One wielding a club swung it into Geralt’s abdomen, knocking the breath from him and forcing him to bend almost double. Before Geralt could recover, the same guard kicked Geralt back, who, shackled as he was, tripped into Nithal. Both of them were sent sprawling and the guards took the opportunity to close and lock the door once more.

The man Geralt had headbutted was furious, a look intensified by the blood streaming from his nose. “You’re next, white-hair,” he spat at Geralt. With that, he trotted off, catching up with his cohorts who were leading the protesting prisoner to the stump.

“You alright?” Nithal asked for the third time that day.

“Fine,” came the terse reply. It took a moment to disentangle himself from Nithal, but once he did, Geralt rose to watch the proceedings. He could feel the eyes of the village leader upon him, burning through him as if he could read his very thoughts. But the man’s attention was soon drawn elsewhere.

Four guards were lifting the captured man onto the stump, holding him down as he struggled desperately to break free. Standing at the top of the stump, near the man’s head, and bearing two ornate daggers that Geralt hadn’t noticed him carrying before, the village leader started speaking. His voice was both smooth and grating, reassuring, yet sinister. There was a man who could move nations with his words. Who knew what power was. And how to keep it. A hush fell over the crowd. Even the wind seemed to quell at the sound of the man’s voice.

“My good people, we gather once again to honor our sacred pact. One that has protected our humble village for centuries, and, gods willing, will do so for centuries more. With it, we have known no war, though they wage beyond our borders. We have known no plagues, though they infest the land. Within these trees, our Protector keeps the evils of this world at bay.”

Geralt had to hand it to the man, he could string together a lofty speech. It was clear why the people were so in awe of him. Even Geralt might have been indoctrinated by such words had he not known that it was their isolation, not some “Protector,” that was keeping these people safe.

“And so, on the first night of the full moon we begin our sacrifices. This year, we are fortunate enough to have many.” He pointed toward Geralt and the others, the crowd turning as one to follow his gaze. “That is well, for there are dark days approaching. But here, in this village, we will know no such darkness.” The village leader was building his speech into a crescendo. “The sun will shine brightly down on us through the clouds that smother the rest of the land and we will know only peace and happiness!” Cheers erupted from the crowd and the village leader raised both daggers triumphantly. He then stepped toward the unwilling sacrifice, calling out into the night.

“Oh, great Protector! We offer you this flesh, blood, and bone, as is your fitting payment. Take it, with our good faith, as fulfillment of our bargain.” He approached the sacrifice, still held firmly in place, arms and legs outstretched, by his guards. He raised one dagger, triggering the man to start crying out and pleading for his life.

“Please! Please, don’t do this! I’ll give you anything, anything! Just don’t—aaaaaaaagh!” The dagger came plummeting down through his hand, lodging into the wooden stump underneath. The man raved incoherently, wailing in pain. But the village leader continued on despite the screams.

“Let the Bloodlord come forth and claim his rightful due!”

The second dagger pierced the man’s other hand, effectively pinning him down. The guards backed away just as the forest behind the stump darkened. Geralt felt it more than saw it. A slight thickening in the blackness between the trees. Then the slightest movement within it.

Out of the trees stepped an enormous, hulking beast, bat-like in form, but standing nearly ten feet high, even hunched slightly as it was. Claws like daggers protruded from bony hands. A feral snarl curled its lip, revealing teeth like foot-long needles.

A vampire. But of what kind, Geralt couldn’t be sure.

The two men sharing the cage with Geralt and Nithal let out gasps and cries of horror, backing away from the creature as far as the bars would allow. Nithal shook where he stood next to Geralt, but held his tongue.

The beast ambled toward the stump and the still-screaming sacrifice. With one swipe of its massive claws, it was over. The man, torn to shreds, bled out over the stump, his movements ceasing almost immediately. The vampire reveled in its kill, letting out a piercing screech before drinking the blood of its victim fresh from the source. When it had slaked its thirst, it snatched what remained of the body from the stump, leaving only the two gleaming daggers in its wake as it turned and disappeared back into the gloom.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The four caged men sat in shocked silence the next day, bound together by mutual fear. Even Geralt had to admit that he couldn’t see a way out of his current situation. And he still had so many questions. Where had that beast come from? And how had the village entered into a pact with such a creature? He had to get more information. And there was only one person who might be willing to provide it.

The young woman approached at the evening meal, the usual fare in tow. As she knelt, Geralt caught her eye once more.

“What is going on here? What was that last night?”

She remained silent and started to rise, but Nithal cut in. “Please, if we are to die, then we at least deserve to know why.”

Her jaw clenched and unclenched with indecision. But, after a moment’s pause, she spoke in a whisper. “Our village has a pact with the Bloodlord. He protects us in exchange for as many sacrifices as we can give him each month.”

“What happens if you can’t find anyone to sacrifice?” Nithal voiced the question, but turned back to Geralt who nodded at him reassuringly. Nithal had been the one to get the woman speaking and she seemed more willing to speak to him. Geralt didn’t care who she spoke to as long as she could explain what was going on.

“Then one of us is given. The pact cannot be broken.” She spoke as if the pact were law. As if it were put forth by the king himself. She likely knew no other way to the world. Still, a slight skepticism wreathed her words.

“But who set up the pact in the first place?”

“Ailak, our leader, tells us that it was set forth by the founders of this village, many generations ago.”

“I take it Ailak is the black-haired one who performed the… ceremony last night?” The woman nodded. “And who is that ginger-haired man that follows him?”

“Briste. He does Ailak’s bidding.”

Geralt could see Nithal struggling to control himself, to keep the anger at their predicament out of his voice, but he ultimately failed. “But how can everyone just stand by as innocent people are killed?!” A bottled rage burst forth from Nithal and he practically yelled at the woman before glancing around to make sure no one had heard. He was clearly done with friendly banter. The woman, though taken aback, didn’t leave. On the contrary, she almost looked ashamed in the wake of his outburst. He continued in a lower volume. “How can you fatten us up like pigs for the slaughter?”

Her eyes fell. “This is my home. There’s nowhere else for me to go. I have to do as Ailak commands. I… I don’t have a choice.”

“But you know it’s not right, I can see it in your eyes. That’s why you bring us fresh loaves of bread, when you could easily give us the stale scraps from the night before.”

“What would you have me do? There is nothing I could do to help you. The most I can do is show you some small kindness,” she said, indicating the bread.

“Get us out of here. Help us escape and we will take you with us. You can be free of this place forever.”

“There is no escaping. They would catch us. You would end up back in this cage and they would make an example out of me.” The woman seemed truly frightened, but at the same time torn, as though she had contemplated the very same idea before.

“We have to try. Please. Do you want to live the rest of your life here, aiding these murderers? Feeding men doomed to die?”

“I—”

“Ronna!”

Startled, the woman panicked and swiftly rose, turning to find an older man storming toward her. As soon as he reached her, he slapped her—hard—across the face, leaving her cowering in his presence.

Nithal and Geralt both voiced their protests at his treatment of her. The man ignored them.

“How many times have I told you not to speak to them! You are to bring them the food and that is it!”

“I’m sorry, father,” she stammered meekly. Ronna looked up and Geralt could see tears streaming down her quickly reddening cheek.

“Go home, now! And if I ever catch you doing this again, that mark on your face will be the least of your worries!”

Knowing she was dismissed, Ronna shuffled away, not daring to glance back at either her father or the prisoners. Clearly satisfied that she had obeyed his orders, her father marched off, muttering under his breath.

Nithal turned to Geralt. “Well, now what?”

Geralt had no answer.

* * *

Geralt spent the rest of the day waiting impatiently, racking his brains for any means of escape. He would just have to break free when they came to open the cage again. It was their only chance, even if it was a slim one. He wouldn’t sleep that night. He had to be ready when the moment came.

And come it did, agonizingly slowly, the minutes and hours drawn out to eternity until the moon hovered above them once more. Geralt positioned himself at the front of the cage as the townspeople filed in. Briste, again, wasn’t with the congregating throng, though Geralt had seen him in his usual place next to Ailak all day.

Unlike the night before, this time eight men were sent to retrieve the sacrifice and, true to the guard’s word, they came for Geralt. He offered no resistance as they called him forward, even bowing his head slightly in a mock act of submission. He would have to be free of the narrow confines of the cage in order to fight to his fullest, although he hadn’t accounted for so many guards coming for him. He wasn’t entirely sure he could take them all down so bound. Still, he would have to try.

Once he was clear of the cage, he sprang into action. Two guards guided him by the arms, with two more both in front and behind. The remaining two guards had stayed behind to lock the cage door. He dove his body left into one man, shoving him away while simultaneously swiveling to break free of the second man’s grip. Succeeding in his first wave of attack, Geralt blasted the guards behind him with a shot of Aard. They were sent flying backward several feet, eventually tumbling to the ground. But Geralt didn’t have time to celebrate. The two men who had been in front of him rounded on him and the guards to either side were rallying. The first man that came at Geralt received a double-handed punch to the face, the second earning a broken nose from a headbutt.

At the same time, Nithal went for the cage door in hopes of escaping and aiding Geralt. But the two guards still by the door were too quick on the uptake. They swung the door shut just as Nithal charged into it. He succeeded in swinging it out slightly and shoved against it, the other prisoners coming up behind him to pile on. Before they could however, the guards had both thrown their bodies into the metal door. It clanged shut despite Nithal’s efforts and was quickly locked by the panting guards. Nithal drew back, defeated, as the men then ran towards Geralt.

“Subdue him!” Geralt heard Ailak cry. Six more men approached.

Geralt was doing well, considering the circumstances, but he was simply outnumbered and could do little more than hobble. When the newcomers arrived, he was quickly overpowered. Only two more of Geralt’s attacks landed before one man kicked him behind the knees and Geralt barely caught himself with his hands before his face went plunging into the dirt. The remaining guards swarmed him. Two on each arm held him down in a kneeling position. Two more stomped painfully on his calves, one on each leg, keeping him from rising.

Still in a rampant frenzy, Geralt continued to struggle and snarl at his captors, but to no avail. Then Ailak spoke again.

“Bring the elixir.”

A man approached Geralt, uncorking a small vial as he did so. One of the men standing on Geralt’s legs clawed hold of his hair and ripped his head back so that Geralt stared only at the moon and the stars, derisively peaceful on such a night. The man with the vial held closed Geralt’s nose and when Geralt finally had to open his mouth to breathe, the man poured the contents down Geralt’s throat. The elixir burned its way down into Geralt’s stomach, then, all at once, spread to every inch of his body. His struggles grew weaker and weaker with each passing second until he no longer had any control over his movements.

He was paralyzed.

Interestingly enough, the effect hadn’t spread to his head. He could still turn his head slightly and move his eyes and mouth. Not that it would do him any good. From back at the cage came a whisper of horror and sorrow.

“No.” It was Nithal. Probably seeing their best chance of escape being literally carried away. In general, Geralt didn’t like to boast, but he knew his uses and those of others. He knew Nithal and the others would most likely not be able to escape without help. And right now he was the only one willing to provide it. He was letting them all down. And he would pay for it with his life.

Those carrying Geralt placed him on the stump-altar after having removed his shackles. They then arranged his limbs as they had with the man the night before, though they didn’t continue to hold him down as they had then. There was obviously no need for that.

Ailak drew near and Geralt tipped his head back as far as he could to catch a glimpse of him. Instead of launching into a grand speech, however, Ailak spoke in a tone meant only for Geralt’s ears.

“We—I knew you would be trouble and so I had a special concoction prepared just for you. Don’t worry though, you will still be able to feel everything,” he said with a malevolent grin. “The Bloodlord will not be denied his sacrifice. And what a sacrifice you will make.”

Without missing a beat, Ailak turned to pander to the crowd, his booming voice echoing through the silence of the night; meanwhile, the wheels were rapidly spinning in Geralt’s mind.

What had he meant, _we_? And why was he trying to hide that one word? He clearly wasn’t talking about the townspeople. He had to have meant someone specific. But who? And, again, why hide it? Something more was going on than Ailak wanted everyone to know and Geralt was going to get to the bottom of it. But first—

There! His toe twitched. Geralt tried again and found that he could just move his toes, unnoticed by anyone because of his boots. The elixir was wearing off already. They must not have known that he was a witcher, or at least not have known that witchers had extremely fast metabolisms. What might have lasted hours on a normal person was wearing off within five minutes. Geralt risked checking whether he could move his fingers while Ailak was still talking and had everyone’s rapt attention. He cautiously moved the tip of his thumb and it obeyed. But the effect wasn’t wearing off fast enough. Ailak was wrapping up his speech, raising the daggers above his head. Geralt could just move his whole foot, but he wasn’t going to give away the fact that he could move before he was sure he could do something with it, lest they just give him more of the elixir.

It was too late.

The dagger stabbed through Geralt’s hand and lodged with a thud into the altar, an intensely sharp pain tearing down his arm. He was lucky it had passed between the bones. A cry clawed its way up Geralt’s throat, but he swallowed it down with a grunt and a grimace, teeth clenched in an effort to keep it tamed.

Then the second dagger fell and it magnified the effects of the first until the cry forced its way past Geralt’s teeth and amplified in the darkening air. Ailak fell back just as the atmosphere around Geralt grew heavy. The darkness pressed in like a thick fog, issuing forth from the void between the trees. Geralt had only moments before the creature would arrive.

By that time, he nearly had full control of his body once more, but he would have to do something agonizing in order to break free. The beast materialized out of the darkness and strode towards Geralt, now only ten feet away. Geralt had to act. Without thinking about the pain it would cause, he forced his palms upward, running them deeper onto the daggers until they reached the hilts. He then wrenched the daggers free of the wood, sitting up with the momentum, his growl of pain mixing with the beast’s scream of frustration at seeing its prey escaping. The maneuver was excruciating, the daggers having been embedded almost an inch into the wood. Geralt was likely the only one strong enough to unseat them. With no time to spare, Geralt grabbed hold of the dagger in his right hand with his teeth, ripping it free from his flesh and casting a clumsily formed sign of Igni at the creature. The sign did little more than produce a shower of sparks, but it served its purpose. The beast, startled and blinded, stopped its advance, throwing its arms up to shield its eyes.

Geralt vaulted over the other side of the altar and nearly collapsed on his freshly working legs, then steadied himself and pulled the second dagger from his other hand. He searched desperately for possibilities as to what to do next, but came up with nothing. That is until he heard someone call to him.

“Over here!”

His head whipped around to see Ronna standing near the cage, his swords and medallion clutched in her arms. Needing no more encouragement, he sprinted to her, the townspeople scattering like leaves before the wind. They didn’t know what to make of the situation and so they fled out of fear. Ailak, it seemed, didn’t know what to do either. He stood in shock near the altar, only a handful of men remaining by his side, waiting for an order.

The beast was still reeling from the flames when Geralt reached Ronna.

She proffered his belongings, glancing between Geralt and Nithal. “Take me with you.”

Geralt threw his medallion over his head and buckled the leather harness around his shoulders. “If we make it through this, we’ll take you anywhere you want.” He pointed toward Nithal. “Just get them out and stand clear. The beast may go for anyone nearby.”

Now that Geralt had his medallion back, he expected to feel the familiar hum vibrating across his chest. But there was nothing. No reaction at all to the monstrosity yards away.

A higher vampire. It had to be. Was it one of the villagers? It could be anyone. But who?

Finding its identity would have to come later because Geralt had no more than drawn his silver sword than the vampire came charging at him. He dodged and rolled underneath a swipe of its claws, coming up only to deflect another. Its power was staggering. Making it worse was the fact that Geralt couldn’t get a very steady grip on his sword, on account of his ruined hands. He fought through the pain regardless, knowing that one false move would end in his death.

Geralt lunged forward to stab the vampire’s foot. Crippling it would help to even the odds. But nothing came of it. It moved out of the way with blinding speed and struck back with equal velocity, Geralt only just managing to sidestep the attack.

A minute passed and neither side had yet landed a serious blow, though Geralt bore a few cuts from straying too close to the beast in an attempt to attack its core. His heightened reflexes had been all that had saved him, the dagger-like claws only inches from killing him. Try as he might, Geralt simply couldn’t get behind the monster. And he soon came to realize that its back was its only vulnerability. He also knew that a long battle would not be in his favor. The higher vampire would tire at a fraction of the rate he would. He needed a new strategy and he needed it now. Geralt had only one idea and it would either win him the battle—or kill him.

Geralt carefully drew the vampire back to the stump, placing the bloody alter between himself and the beast. If it tried to get around the stump, Geralt would parallel its movements, but in the opposite direction, always keeping the obstacle between himself and the vampire. It soon tired of the new game of keep-away, growing more and more frustrated.

Geralt just kept goading it, daring it to make a move. “Come on, you pathetic beast! Is that all you’ve got?!”

It stopped, placing both hands on the altar and letting loose a bellowing shriek at Geralt. Just before it made to jump over the stump at him, Geralt cast Yrden on it, forcing his unwilling fingers into the correct positions. He needed all the strength behind the sign he could muster. And it succeeded. The vampire was temporarily trapped, a purple glow illuminating its gruesome features. Geralt charged. He hurtled toward the stump as fast as his legs could carry him, leaping onto it and using it as a springboard to flip up over the head of the beast, its claws upraised. As he came down behind it, he plunged his sword through the base of the vampire’s neck, thrusting it in until the bloodied tip protruded from its throat, then yanking it free as he fell. The beast floundered for a moment, gurgling, blood spurting from its neck. Finally it ceased its struggle, falling sideways to the cold earth, dead.

A few feet further, Geralt landed on his feet, though he immediately fell to one knee from the impact, chest heaving from the exertion. He clutched futilely at his right side as blood poured from a meter-long gash extending from his chest down through to his thigh. Any deeper and it would have gutted him. The beast hadn’t died without imparting one last blow.

The death of their venerated Bloodlord seemed to galvanize Ailak into action. He and the five cronies still with him stampeded toward Geralt, Ailak drawing his sword. Geralt had only just raised his own when Ailak set upon him. A few clumsy parries was all that Geralt could manage before he was sent sprawling backwards, barely able to keep the sword out in front of him as he hit the ground. The man wasn’t very skilled with a sword, but Geralt was utterly spent.

Nithal came rushing over, but Geralt waved him off. They were outnumbered three to one and Nithal wasn’t even armed. It wouldn’t do for Nithal to get himself killed along with Geralt. Ronna caught up with Nithal, but he held her back, understanding Geralt’s reasoning in stopping him. The two other prisoners remained by the cage.

Geralt looked back to a furious Ailak, his men forming a semicircle behind him. Panting and exhausted, Geralt gritted his teeth with each breath as a wave of pain lanced up his side and blood dribbled down his arms. His silver sword still dangled in the air above him, a feeble measure of protection.

Ailak’s eyes were alight with rage, his nostrils flaring. “How dare you! How dare you slay the Bloodlord!” He leveled his sword threateningly at Geralt. “You will pay for what you have done. You, your friends, and that traitor,” he pointed to each in turn, “will know pain and misery like none other.” Ailak motioned to his men. “Take them and build pyres. They will burn for what they have done. But first, we will teach them the meaning of agony,” he fumed maliciously, his lip curling.

All five men moved at once, but they hadn’t taken one step before a sickening crunch was followed by a piercing shriek. A sword protruded from the hindmost man’s chest, the blade glistening crimson in the pale moonlight. He slumped forward, sliding from the blade.

Vesemir stood in his place, brandishing his sword, ready for a fight.

“You will leave them alone. Or you will die where you stand.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Vesemir had been searching for Geralt for two days. He never had found the entrance to the cave. The system must have gone on for miles. Instead, he was forced to scour the woods, hoping against hope that some sort of trail would materialize. But no such luck. The first night, a faint scream had bounced through the forest and he had started in its direction only to blunder into a thicket so dense, there could be no passage. And it stretched for miles in either direction.

He had been skirting around it all day until he heard a cry that had chilled him to the bone. It was Geralt, he was sure of it. And it was much closer this time. The ensuing sounds of some kind of skirmish spurred him onward until he found the slightest thinning in the brush. It was his only option. He had to get to Geralt, fast.

It took him almost five minutes to hack his way through to the other side. He dared not use Igni for fear of setting the entire forest ablaze. Once through, he ran toward the source of the now-silent battle, his heart rising into his throat at the thought of what could have happened. Cresting a small ridge, he beheld a bloodied Geralt, laid out before a man with a sword, Geralt’s own held weakly before him.

Vesemir ran.

* * *

The four men attacked as one, but they were no match for the seasoned witcher. Geralt watched as Vesemir weaved amongst them, sword flashing in a dance of steel. He sidestepped an overhead blow from his right, then ducked when a sword whistled toward his head. His own sword, meanwhile, twirled once horizontally and sliced through the man’s legs. Maintaining his momentum, Vesemir kicked out behind him at the knees of another guard, beheading him as he stumbled. Just like their compatriots, the final two stood no chance. One by one Vesemir cut them down, mere saplings falling before a heavy axe.

Only Ailak remained.

Ailak turned to face Vesemir, sword at the ready. Vesemir looked him up and down once, a collective witcher habit—to size up an enemy before engaging. With a shout, Ailak struck first. Vesemir easily parried the blow, but had to concede ground from the sheer force of it. Geralt knew Ailak was furious and that made him dangerous. More dangerous than he had any right to be. He was not to be underestimated. Still, Vesemir went on the attack, striking at Ailak and forcing him back. Ailak held his own, but his deflections eventually failed under the lightning fast onslaught and he was borne to the ground. Vesemir closed in. However, in his assured victory, Vesemir failed to notice Ailak running his hand through the dirt. As Vesemir drew near, Ailak sent a shower of dirt flying into his eyes. Vesemir was instantly blinded, even his witcher reflexes not fast enough to avoid all of the particles. His hands shot up of their own volition, his sword carried with them, leaving him defenseless with Ailak closing in.

There was no time to think. Mustering what strength he could, Geralt stumbled to his feet and surged toward Ailak. Just as Ailak raised his sword to deliver a killing blow, Geralt reached him and gracelessly stabbed him through the gut with his silver sword, the monumental effort leaving Geralt winded and shaky.

After a moment’s pause, Vesemir looked up and seemed surprised at finding himself still alive as he wiped the muck from his watering eyes. They soon met Geralt’s in silent gratitude, a slight nod adding emphasis to their message. But Geralt’s and Vesemir’s focus was quickly drawn toward Ailak as the scene devolved into chaos.

At the touch of the silver sword, Ailak screamed and convulsed, his skin bubbling and shimmering. The night-black hair faded to a dusty orange, the pale complexion darkened.

Briste now lay at the witchers’ feet.

“You’re… you’re a doppler,” Geralt both asked and declared, incredulous. Out of the all the strange things that had happened that night, that was by far the strangest.

Briste coughed, blood flying from his lips. He nodded his head slightly, fear and sadness dulling the anger that had danced in his eyes.

“Then, who was the higher vampire? What is going on here?”

Though it clearly pained him to talk, Briste seemed almost eager to divulge the story. “It was Ailak. He took over this village, gained the people’s trust. At first he only hunted animals in the forest. But soon he hungered for more. He wanted human blood, human flesh. Then one day he found me, half-starved to death in the woods. He knew immediately what I was and rather than kill me or ostracize me, he offered me food and shelter. With me by his side, he came up with a plan.

“He would convince the people that they needed protection that only the beast could provide. It wasn’t hard for him. He always had a way with manipulating those around him. And so the Bloodlord was born. The great protector of our village. They need only offer him a sacrifice on every full moon. If they balked at first, the hesitation soon died. Over time, and with Ailak controlling the story, the people even forgot the origins of the pact altogether. The legend of the Bloodlord grew and with it, the fervor for finding suitable sacrifices. Traps were placed, hunting parties sent out. There were many times, still, when no one could be found. One would be chosen from the villagers on such an occasion. Usually one that was beginning to question the validity of the pact. It was an elaborate game. And Ailak played it out masterfully. He even told the people that the Bloodlord had granted him long life so that he could always act as the bridge between them.”

“And you could just change form when convenient, assume an alternate identity,” Geralt mused. “What I don’t understand is why you would go along with it. I’ve never known dopplers to be so bloodthirsty.”

“Ailak never—” A coughing fit racked Briste’s body. When it finished, he drew in rasping breaths. Blood had completely soaked through his robe. Vesemir met Geralt’s eye, a look of grudging sympathy striking his features. Once Briste had control of himself once more, he went on. “Ailak never once looked at me like an outcast, like a freak. He knew what it was like to be different.” Briste’s breathing became stilted. “I only ever… wanted to belong…” Briste’s voice trailed off, the life draining from his face until the fire in his eyes snuffed out completely. He was gone.

Immediately after, Geralt fell to his knees, grabbing his side in agony. Curiosity had stayed him through Briste’s dying words, but reality had come flooding back. As he fell, Nithal and Ronna came rushing over, the two other men following closely behind now that the danger had passed. Vesemir, seeing them as a nonthreat, paid them no mind, instead tending to Geralt and helping him to stand.

“Geralt?”

“I’ll be fine, Vesemir,” he winced. “We need to get these people out of here.” He nodded at Nithal. “This is the man we’ve been looking for.”

Vesemir creased his eyebrows at Nithal, recognizing him for who he was. “Unbelievable. Fate sure has a morbid sense of humor when it comes to you, Geralt.” Geralt had no answer to that. He had said as much the day before. Vesemir then addressed Nithal. “Nithal, I presume then? I need you to help Geralt. It looks like we are going to have company,” he added, indicating with a nod of his head over Nithal’s shoulder.

From the village proper, the people were returning in droves and along with them, more of the guards, anger displacing their fading fear. They hadn’t heard Briste’s confession. In their eyes, Geralt had just slayed their leader, though they would likely think that Ailak had merely fled and Briste had been the one actually killed since it was his body they would find. Not to mention the fact that Geralt had killed their Bloodlord, supposedly their only protection from the evils of the world. The angry mob approached, their shouting carried to the small group on the dead air. They needed to get out of there. And quickly.

Nithal swooped under Geralt’s arm, taking Vesemir’s place. Vesemir, for his part, took Geralt’s sword, wiping it clean and restoring it to its sheath. Ronna hastily stepped forward.

“This way.”

“And you might be?” It was an honest question. Vesemir hadn’t seen what Ronna had done for them. He must have thought that she was just another prisoner like the rest of them.

“This is Ronna, she lives here. She helped us escape,” Nithal offered.

“And if you still want to live, you’ll follow me.” She stepped ahead of them. “The huntsmen’s horses are this way. They always keep them saddled this time of the month in case they get wind of a possible sacrifice.”

Ronna led them to the stables, the two prisoners staying close behind her. Geralt and Nithal were slowed considerably by Geralt’s injuries. By the time they reached the horses, Nithal was soaked in Geralt’s blood. Vesemir brought up the rear, in case any villagers got too close. None had so far, but several guards with swords drawn were gaining on them quickly. Only the party’s sizeable lead on the guards had kept them from reaching the escaping group.

“Quickly! On the horses!” Vesemir commanded. Everyone hastened to obey. Vesemir and Nithal hoisted Geralt onto a horse, then scrambled to mount their own. With a kick and a swishing of tails, the six were off, and not a moment too soon.

Geralt could hear enraged swearing and shouting behind them. He urged his mount onward though every stride felt like it would tear him apart at the seam of his wound. He could feel himself fading, but adrenaline was holding the darkness at bay for the time being.

A hundred yards from the village, their pursuers finally caught up. The guards’ horses were frothing at the mouth, sides heaving already as their masters mercilessly whipped them on to greater speeds.

“Geralt!” The warning came from Vesemir who was watching their pursuers’ advance. Whipping his head around to look, Geralt saw a crossbow pointed at his head, the string cocked and ready. He ducked out of pure reflex as the bolt whizzed by, inches from his head, sailing over him and embedding itself into the haunch of the horse in front of him. It was the mount of one of the men from the cage. The animal squealed and tumbled, jettisoning the man from the saddle. Geralt veered his horse around the carnage. Those following were not so considerate and trampled over the man, a quick shout silenced by thundering hooves.

Vesemir deflected a second crossbow bolt with his sword, making it fly wide of its mark, the shot soon lost amongst the trees. There were four guards chasing them down and luckily only two had crossbows. Even luckier still was that they couldn’t reload them galloping at such a speed. The escapees were safe from ranged attacks, but not from the guards’ swords. And the men were only feet from Geralt and Vesemir, who were riding in the rear.

Vesemir already had his sword drawn and Geralt drew his own, twisting to draw it with his left hand. He didn’t think he could manage a sword with his right arm, considering his injuries. Geralt wasn’t as proficient with his left hand, but all witchers were taught to wield a sword with both hands, even if they only ever fought regularly with one.

The first attacker rode up to Geralt, but Geralt wasn’t waiting for the man’s sword to come within striking range. In a downward stroke, Geralt chopped at the horse’s neck, nearly severing it completely. The horse dropped immediately, its legs simply ceasing to function. The guard riding behind it had trailed it too closely and his own horse was tripped up in the wreckage. That left only two. But the third man to close in seemed to have learned from the first man’s mistake and swung out wide, bringing himself up level with Vesemir before swerving back in to engage the witcher. The extra caution didn’t help him much. They only exchanged a few blows before Vesemir deflected the man’s sword to the side and swung his own back in a horizontal arc to slice the man’s head clean off. The limp body fell from the saddle. The final pursuer, with the chances of success now stacked firmly against him, pulled back.

It took a few more miles before the witchers fully trusted that no one else was coming after them and sheathed their swords.

Though they rode on, Geralt soon found himself drifting. His vision was blurring, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Even breathing became difficult. But they couldn’t stop, not now. They had to get clear of the village. He had to keep going.

But for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he was going to make it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

A pale blue glow was just beginning to lighten the sky when they reached the river. Vesemir had had them slow to a trot once they had felt comfortable no one else was pursuing them. It wouldn’t have been very helpful for their horses to collapse from exhaustion if someone had finally caught up with them.

They didn’t slow as they neared the bank. The horses gratefully dipped into the cool water, splashing themselves with icy droplets with each step.

Once on the far side, Vesemir reined in his steed, letting out a loud whistle at the same time to call for his own horse. Glancing back, Vesemir did a double take when he saw Geralt slumping down over his horse’s neck. Then Geralt dropped to the ground with a heavy thud.

“Geralt!”

Dismounting in a flurry, Vesemir rushed to Geralt’s side, Nithal and Ronna quick to do the same once they realized what had happened. The final prisoner was not so willing.

“What are you doing?! Just leave him, he’s as good as dead anyway. We have to keep moving!”

“He’s the reason you’re still alive, you ungrateful cur,” Nithal barked at him.

“We’re not leaving him,” Vesemir stated decisively.

“Well, I’m not risking staying here for a dead man.” The man spun his horse and was gone, the drum of receding hoofbeats sounding through the forest.

“Coward,” Ronna spat. She turned her attention back to Geralt. “Is he going to make it?”

Geralt was barely breathing, his eyes fluttering. His face was pale, even for him, his skin clammy.

“I don’t know. He’s lost a lot of blood. Too much.”

“Well there must be something you can do! You’re witchers. Don’t you have magic potions and secret remedies that can cure any ailment?” Nithal, like many people, overestimated what witchers could do with their magic and elixirs.

“If that were true, there would be a hell of a lot more of us left. But, I do know of one thing that might help.”

“What? What is it?”

Vesemir hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“I discovered something by accident a long time ago, a variant of what we call White Raffard’s Decoction, a healing potion. I had been gored by a boar—long story—and I was far from any healer that could see to my wound. I decided to brew a White Raffard’s Decoction, but, in my haste, I didn’t brew it properly. Still, I had no other choice but to take it and hope for the best.”

“And did it work?”

With a sigh, Vesemir answered, “Yes. And even better than the proper form does actually. It healed my wound instantly. Normally it wouldn’t do that. It just facilitates healing enough to stabilize lesser wounds.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

A haunted look glazed over Vesemir’s eyes. “Pain. It caused such pain that I can remember it to this very day. How it burned like a hot iron through my side, as if my very flesh had turned to fire. Amidst my screaming I wondered if it wouldn’t have been better had I died. I lay there in agony for what was surely only seconds, maybe a minute, but had felt like hours, days, until my throat would produce no more sound and the pain, mercifully, faded. You see, healing is a painful process. Stretched, as it should be, over months and years, the effects are negligible. But concentrate it into such a short span of time…and it becomes excruciating. And my wound was but a pinprick next to Geralt’s. What might save him could very well kill him.”

Nithal grew quiet during Vesemir’s story, hope turning to sadness on his face, but not completely disappearing. “We’ll take him to my village, then. If we ride hard, we can make it in a couple of hours.”

“No,” Vesemir said resignedly, eyes downcast. “Geralt won’t last that long. Even if he did, I doubt any healers but the elves themselves could heal this wound. Alas, I am selfish. I would have him live if there is even but a chance to make it so. The potion is our only choice. But first, there are a few things we need. Nithal, do you know the ribleaf plant?”

“Aye.”

“Find me as much as you can in five minutes.” Wasting no time, he tore away into the trees. Vesemir turned to Ronna. “We’re going to need a fire.” Ronna nodded and started gathering twigs and branches, bunching up fallen leaves as tinder.

While they worked on their assigned tasks, Vesemir went over to his horse, who had trotted up while they were talking. Roach had come as well, following her companion back to their masters. Vesemir gave them a quick pat before diving into their saddlebags for supplies. He had most of them himself, though he was missing one or two ingredients. The rest he came up with after rummaging through Geralt’s stash.

While he waited for the others to return, Vesemir grabbed the blanket tied behind his saddle and, rolling it up, used it as a pillow for Geralt. Geralt gave no response to the ministrations. Vesemir could hear Geralt’s heart beating—slowly and faintly. He was worsening by the minute. Vesemir would only get one chance at brewing the decoction.

Nithal chose that moment to come hurtling back through the forest, two large handfuls of ribleaf to show for his effort. Upon seeing him, Vesemir set Ronna’s carefully constructed fire alight with a sign of Igni. A small pot of water was soon boiling over the flames and Vesemir added the ingredients at the appropriate times, stirring the mixture occasionally. In ten minutes, the elixir was ready.

Selecting a cup from his pack, Vesemir poured the potion into it, dunking the outside of the cup in the river for a moment to cool its contents. Next, it was at Geralt’s lips.

“Forgive me,” whispered Vesemir. Then he tipped the cup, dribbling the liquid down Geralt’s throat.

At first, nothing happened and Vesemir feared that he had somehow made a mistake in the brewing process. But soon a faint glow emanated from Geralt’s wounds, one that grew stronger and brighter with each passing second. Geralt’s eyes shot open, but remained unfocused, the wounds having healed enough for vague consciousness to come flooding back. Then started the screaming. Geralt writhed in agony, hands strained into claws, back arched until it looked as though it would break, his cries exploding through the trees. His wounds were white hot, like a blacksmith were casting the edges back together. The molten light cleaved through Geralt’s torso, burst from his hands, looking as though it might split him in two. From the sounds issuing forth from Geralt, it seemed as though it was doing just that.

Ronna clung to Nithal through Geralt’s torment, a consoling arm wrapped around her shoulders. Tears leaked down her face. Nithal struggled to keep his eyes up, though in the end, both he and Ronna had to avert their gazes. Vesemir allowed himself no such luxury. He had made the decision and he would live with the consequences, even if they would haunt him for the rest of his life. A solitary tear slipped down his cheek.

It took five minutes for the screaming to abate. For Geralt’s agony to finally subside enough that he fell unconscious once more. Five whole minutes of torture for Geralt and those he called friend—both new and old. With the wounds no longer glowing, Vesemir could see that they had completely healed, only the faintest of white lines indicating that they had ever existed.

But something was wrong. Geralt was gasping for breath. Vesemir neared and could feel the heat radiating from Geralt from a foot away. Nithal, too, was concerned.

“What’s happening?”

“He’s overheating. My wound must have been too small to cause any significant heat to build up, but Geralt’s was much more dire. We have to get him into the river, now! Or he’s going to be broiled alive.”

Both men grabbed an arm and hauled Geralt to the river. Even through the thick leather gloves Vesemir wore, Geralt’s skin was almost burning him. He didn’t know how Geralt could even be alive. The water hissed as they plunged him into the rolling river. They submerged as much of him as they could. Only Geralt’s face remained out of the water. Vesemir knew Nithal had to be freezing, but the man made no complaint as they waited. Gradually, Geralt’s breathing calmed and it finally slowed to the point where Vesemir thought it safe enough to pull him out. They laid Geralt back down on the shore and wrapped him in blankets to make sure he wouldn’t then get a chill. He laid peacefully where they had placed him, his breathing steady, his color returning. It was a relieving sight.

Both witcher and man plunked themselves down next to the fire, exhausted both physically and emotionally. Ronna joined them, sharing in their weariness.

It had been a long day. 

* * *

When Geralt had awoken the next day, he remembered only flashes of what had happened after crossing the river. There had been an immeasurable pain; that much he could remember. The mere thought of it making him surreptitiously wince and grab at the thin scar on his chest. There had also been a searing heat. Followed by a frigid cold. He had asked Vesemir about it, but Vesemir had refused to fill in all the details, saying that some things were better left forgotten.

They had then spent most of the day riding back to Nithal’s village. Though fully healed, Geralt was still weak from the ordeal, a fact that he had discovered when he went to mount Roach and found that he couldn’t by himself. None of the others seemed to mind taking it slow after the harrowing escape of the night before. Still, Geralt was itching to see Nithal back to his village and be on his way despite the fact that he had grown fond of the man. He had seen enough of this forest.

It was late afternoon when they arrived. They hadn’t gone too far into town when Fimel came running up to them, becoming practically hysterical when he spotted Nithal with them. Fimel escorted the group back to the house, showering them with praises all the while. Geralt and Nithal relayed their stories along the way, Vesemir and Ronna filling in details here and there. When they reached the house, by unspoken consent, the four dismounted and they all went inside to drink, eat, and talk. In that order.

“I still can’t thank you enough, master witchers, for finding my brother,” Fimel relayed for the tenth time.

“Aye, I’d surely be long dead by now if it weren’t for you,” Nithal chimed in. “We don’t have much gold, but whatever we have, it’s yours.”

Geralt shook his head. “Keep it. You helped save my life too. Let’s just call it even.”

“Hardly!” Nithal retorted. “All I did was find some plants. Not fight off monsters and… and six men with my bare hands!”

“Yeah, well that part didn’t turn out so well, did it?”

“It doesn’t matter. I owe you.” Nithal looked lovingly to Ronna, who was sidled up close to him on the bench. The bruise on her face was already fading. “ _We_ owe you.”

Geralt raised his eyebrows in amazement and approval. He had figured as much on the way back. How Nithal and Ronna had ridden next to each other, whispering, smiling, and laughing the whole way, even after such a dark affair.

“Then do me a favor.”

“Anything,” Nithal responded earnestly.

“Keep the money and use it to build a new life for yourselves. Preferably as far away from here as you can get. Deal?”

Nithal made to protest, but stopped himself at the glare Geralt was directing at him. Instead he let out a heavy sigh, then smiled. “Deal. And if our paths should ever cross again, know that you will always be welcome at our table.”

Grinning as well, Geralt nodded.

Then Vesemir, indicating the enormous amount of food they had just consumed, said, “A dangerous offer, that. And one we will most certainly take you up on.” He rose. “But until that day, I think it is time that we be on our way.”

The five of them made their way outside, Geralt and Vesemir mounting their freshly provisioned horses.

Nithal addressed them one last time. “Farewell. I sincerely hope to see you again one day.”

Smiling, Geralt first looked at Fimel, who was overjoyed to have his brother back; then at the newly founded couple, both beaming up at him with their arms around each other. He sincerely hoped that he would see them again too. And wished them health and happiness to the end of their days.

“Farewell.”

**Epilogue**

The sun beat gloriously down on Geralt’s face as they exited the trees and he basked in its reassuring warmth. Vesemir looked likewise comforted to be clear of the forest. It had taken another day to ride to the edge of Bloodlet Forest. They had whiled away the hours talking amiably, mostly speculating about where their new friends would end up settling. Geralt was a proponent of coming up with ever-wilder theories about their future lives. A discussion that ended with Nithal becoming a fiend pelt salesman in Novigrad, with Fimel minding the shop and Ronna running a small taxidermy business around back.

Now they sat atop their mounts in amicable silence, saddened somewhat to say goodbye to their newfound friends, but at the same time glad to be on the move again. It was a witcher’s life to be on the road. To be able to ride away into the sunset, forsaking the painful memories, but treasuring the good, stashing them for a rainy day. To be truly free. Free of any one nation, any one place. Only beholden to friends and loved ones.

That was a witcher’s life. A fate that Geralt had chosen. And Geralt would take the pain and misfortune that it brought if it meant such a life were possible.

“Hey, Geralt?” Vesemir snapped Geralt out of his contented reverie.

“Yeah?”

“No more shortcuts.”

Geralt chuckled. “Agreed.”

They rode on for a moment in silence before Vesemir added, “And I did tell you so.”

Geralt just grumbled.

**THE END**

* * *

 

Thank you all so much for reading my biggest (and longest) story to date. Hopefully there were some twists and turns in there that you didn’t see coming. The story really evolved from the very first idea that I had. Even after I had the main outline, I thought for sure that it was going to be half the length that it ended up being. In any case, I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you had just as much fun reading it! And just in time for the Witcher 3 expansion to come out! So excited! Anywho, if you have any comments or reviews, please don’t hesitate! Thanks again!! :)


End file.
